


A Long Lost Refrain

by DyraDoodles



Series: Pledge a Coin to Your Witcher [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mentioned Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Modern Era, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22821493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DyraDoodles/pseuds/DyraDoodles
Summary: It's been hundreds of years since Jaskier's death. Geralt faces a modernized world without his Bard, and all the changes and challenges of time's passage. Including, but not limited to, a strange new Witcher school churning out dangerous, bloodthirsty brutes, flipping the image of witchers in the public eye on its head, and undoing all of Jaskier's work.Jaskier's songs have vanished along with the Bard himself. Or at least, so Geralt thought.(part 1 of a planned series)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Pledge a Coin to Your Witcher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640626
Comments: 54
Kudos: 416





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a weird plot planned, and backstory, and ZERO time to write!!! So just a big heads up there since updates will likely be slow. I also barely go here, in my own opinion, but I have read a shitton of fanfic, so hopefully everybody's at least somewhat in-character. I also normally do multi-chapter fics instead of a series of one-shot type things, so please bear with me as I figure this out lol
> 
> Also idfk what to tag this as, so if anyone has any suggestions/recommendations, lemme know! You can hit me up on tumblr or twitter @dyradoodles :D (my blog is mostly Venom stuff—like I said, I barely go here)

Geralt didn’t see the text until after his sword had cleaved the kikimora’s head in two, and he’d shoved a dismembered, still-bloody claw into a sack. His proof of the kill was tucked safely into the saddlebag of his motorcycle, and then he checked his phone out of a long-established habit, intending to notify Ciri that he was, in fact, still alive.

She’d texted him first. A link to a news article, and a simple statement:

There’s another one.

He grunted, sure he didn’t have to guess at the article’s contents, but he tapped the link anyway.

Sure enough, the story was about a witcher slaughtering the people they were meant to protect. This one cut down a whole family after not getting paid enough for a hunt. The general public was advised to be on the lookout, even if they all knew there wasn’t much to be done.

For once, the article specified to be wary of a witcher with a boar medallion.

Geralt grimaced, texting back a quick, ‘Alive. How many boars now?’ before mounting his motorcycle. As he sped back to town, he mused over the increasing number of articles. Of sightings. The boar witchers had to number well over fifty, by now. At least one per year in the past half-century. It was surprising he hadn’t run into one himself, yet.

There were too many Boars, appearing too quick for his liking. Too quick for Ciri’s, too, or any of his brethren still standing after all these years.

He hardly had time to contemplate these new-age witchers, though, considering how quickly they sniped his contracts. He was too busy trying to keep food in his stomach and gas in his tank.

At least the number of monsters might finally be going down, he thought sourly. Even if it meant he’d be out of a job.

It didn’t take long to reach the pub where he could get his pay. More and more contracts were getting posted online, but Geralt still liked to grab the more old-school postings from time to time. Plus, they were less likely to be immediately snapped up if they were posted in a pub window, rather than social media.

He parked his bike and headed inside, sack of kikimora claw in tow.

The pub was buzzing with chatter, most patrons not facing the door. A live band was setting up in the back corner, their lead singer gesturing to the guitar sitting on the floor next to her as she spoke to her companions. She turned toward the barkeep, calling, “Hey, have you seen—” and then instantly cut herself off upon spotting Geralt.

Geralt ignored the worried look, and the sudden, suspicious glances thrown his way, striding over to the barkeep himself. “Job’s done,” he announced, dropping his sack on the counter.

The barkeep shuffled back a step in alarm, only to quickly laugh. Too quickly, nervous and skittish as he regarded the witcher. “Ah, yes, great. Thank you. You’ll, uh, You’ll be looking for your pay, then.” He moved to the cash register, hitting buttons erratically, like he expected Geralt to draw the steel sword on his back if he didn’t move quick enough.

Geralt waited, patience well-practiced as the man fumbled in pulling out a paper bag of cash, the word _Witcher_ written across its surface. The bastard Boars had every one of his recent clients like this, scared and paranoid of his presence, even when they badly needed it.

“Here you are,” the barkeep said, thrusting the package toward Geralt.

The witcher took it, ripping open the top to verify the amount.

“It should all be there,” the barkeep assured nervously. “For the two kikimora.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched into a frown, deliberating for a brief moment, before ultimately taking half the bills and placing them on the counter.

The barkeep stared at the money, baffled, then at Geralt, mouth parting in a voiceless question.

“There was only one,” Geralt told him. “Just hungry enough for two.”

“Oh,” the barkeep breathed. “Oh, that’s—That’s great, then.” He took the remaining money back, chuckling uneasily. “Don’t suppose I could offer you a pint and some food, then, on the house? As thanks for...As thanks.”

 _As thanks for not swindling us like a Boar_ , Geralt finished for him mentally. He could hear the nervous murmuring stirring up behind him, but then it was replaced by the sound of a guitar. The band started up with their first song, their vocalist apparently deciding Geralt wasn’t a witcher to worry about after all. As she began to sing a song Geralt had never heard before, he nodded to the barkeep.

“Right, uh, go ahead and sit...wherever you like,” the barkeep insisted. “What kinda food would you—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt interrupted. “Whatever’s quick, and filling.”

The barkeep practically ran to relay his order to the kitchen.

Geralt moved to the edge of the pub, finding a back corner booth open. He knew the offer was probably bullshit, that the barkeep really wanted him to be polite and just _leave_ , but he wasn’t going to turn down a free meal.

Even if he did have to listen to a live band as he ate.

He’d hardly sat down when a waitress approached his table with a dark, ice-cold pint. She set it down carefully, though flitted away the second she assured him his food would be out soon.

Geralt took a sip of his beer, appraising. Not bad, not great. At least not poisoned. He took out his phone, checking for Ciri’s response.

Nothing yet.

Geralt sighed through his nose, schooling himself not to down his entire beer in one go before his food got to his table. Neither the drink, nor the phone was distracting enough, right now. Not with the band as loud as it was on his heightened sense of hearing.

At least they weren’t playing any anti-witcher songs, yet, though he expected they would soon enough. They’d grown too popular not to. Audiences demanded reprieve from evil, but necessary creatures built only to hunt other monsters.

Jaskier’s message that witchers like Geralt were a “friend of humanity” had long faded from human memory. Snuffed out like a candle flame.

Geralt hated it. All the songs of their adventures, gone. Any mentions of the _good_ they’d done, even exaggerated, vanished. The last time he’d heard anyone play a song of Jaskier’s it had been out-of-tune, the lyrics egregiously off, and Jaskier’s name unwritten from history.

 _The Witcher’s Bard_ , they called him now, as if that was all he’d been. As though he wasn’t infinitely more.

The band’s song changed, and the vocalist began again softly, by herself.

She had a good voice, Geralt noted, eyes still on his beer. Her voice was strong, carrying over the noise of the other patrons’ chatter. The guitarist came in, and it was similarly nice-sounding, though Geralt knew he was still no expert at judging music.

His food was brought out, finally. The waitress set a piping hot stew before him, before again distancing herself as much as possible from the witcher.

Geralt scarfed the food down, uncaring as it burned his tongue. Whatever filled his stomach and got him out of the pub faster. He didn’t want to keep musing on Boars or Bards, eager to finish up and find a place to sleep for the night.

It wasn’t Jaskier’s voice singing, anyway. Not the rich, warm tone behind his smile. Not the airy, light and whimsical sounds he could croon, sweeping his audience up into the stories themselves.

Geralt could almost hear it, if he tried. Could imagine it perfectly, the bard’s voice still imprinted in the depths of his memory. It harmonized and added flair to the vocalist’s, drawing him in to the song.

And then, as the second verse began, Geralt realized he wasn’t imagining at all.

Jaskier was singing.

For the first time since entering the pub, Geralt turned to actually _look_ at the band, food instantly forgotten.

There, on the tiny stage, was the unmistakable _Witcher’s Bard_ , playing guitar and singing his heart out along with the vocalist. Hands busy on his strings, he flicked his short, brown hair back, a familiar grin on the edge of his lips.

Geralt stared openly, certain he was hallucinating. Something must have been in the beer, after all. Had to be.

But then he blinked, and Jaskier was still there. Still singing. He wore different clothes—No doublet, no tunic to denote he was a vision of the past haunting Geralt’s weary mind. He was dressed in the modern fashion, but with the same penchant for bright, saturated colors that would have made Geralt’s eyes ache if they didn’t somehow fit together perfectly.

It was a beautiful sight.

It was an _impossible_ sight.

Hundreds of years worth of impossibility. Hundreds of years since Jaskier the Bard died. Since Geralt sat by his bedside, holding Jaskier’s hand, until a lasting, eternal sleep fell over the bard’s weary body.

And yet the man on stage played all the same, looking bright and young and enduring, with the same restless energy fueling his strumming. The same joy on his face as he entranced the audience. The same _eyes_ , roving over the crowd, shining and delighted as the more rowdy patrons joined in with the refrain.

All air was punched from Geralt’s lungs when their eyes met.

It was quick. The briefest connecting glance. A fleeting moment of study, and then gone again, onto the next member of the audience. Like it wasn’t his witcher watching him.

Like Geralt was a stranger.

Something in Geralt’s chest twisted uncomfortably as the man’s eyes kept glancing at him, but not lingering. Like he didn’t know who Geralt was, but was still intrigued by the white-haired, golden-eyed witcher staring him down. There was curiosity in those young, impossibly blue eyes.

Yet, no recognition. At least, none that Geralt could see.

The song ended with a flourish, and applause. The band bowed, slightly, both singers beaming.

“What a lovely audience we have here tonight!” Jaskier— _but it couldn’t be Jaskier, Jaskier would know him—_ observed, gesturing to the crowd. “Do any of you have a song request? The regulars are surely tired of our regular set.”

“You may have guessed our specialty is folk songs, but we could always _try_ a pop song without all the autotune,” the vocalist next to him added, moving her long hair back over her shoulder.

A few members of the crowd laughed, until a burly man near the stage shouted, “Play _Bury the Boar!_ ”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, watching intently Jaskier’s look-alike hesitate, along with the vocalist.

“No anti-witcher propaganda!” the barkeep yelled in return. Then his gaze shifted apologetically to Geralt, like a damned _fool,_ drawing the rest of the pub’s attention to follow it to the back corner.

Geralt bit back a growl as people turned to him, the whole establishment suddenly _painfully_ aware of the witcher among them. Dozens of eyes watching, waiting for his reaction. Waiting to see if he’d draw a sword for the insult.

Jaskier’s look-alike waited, too, though his expression held more interest than wariness.

Geralt grit his teeth and held up his Witcher’s Medallion. “School of the Wolf,” he corrected, knowing full-well what they’d assumed. “Not Boar.”

Palpable relief filled the air, though the sharp scent of fear remained, merely subdued.

On stage, the look-alike repeated the words noiselessly. Then, his eyes widened, and for a hopeful instant, Geralt thought he’d recognized his old friend after all.

That is, until the singer exclaimed, “You’re _the_ White Wolf! You’re the one from the legends!”

The crowd murmured amongst themselves at the identification. Geralt caught the vocalist’s scornful glare at her companion, her lips forming _what the fuck are you doing?_ to the increasingly giddy young man.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Jaksier’s look-alike continued gleefully, his damned grin calling back memories Geralt had long tried to bury. The singer appeared to take Geralt’s glower as a begrudging unwillingness to admit the truth, declaring “A man of myth sits among us tonight!” Hand on his hip, he canted his head at Geralt, far too smug at his find. “What say you, master witcher? Have _you_ any songs you’d like to hear?”

Geralt nearly scoffs at the title. Master witcher. As if anyone in this pub would regard him as such.

...Jaskier would. Jaskier would definitely tease him with that title.

This man, though, this cheeky, damned singer with Jaskier’s face, couldn’t possibly _be_ the Bard. Geralt wracked his brain for an explanation, coming up very short, very quickly. Even the most attentive of dopplers wouldn’t be able to mimic Jaskier after so many years. They wouldn’t be able to keep up the facade, and they wouldn’t dare challenge _Geralt of Rivia_ , with Jaskier’s memories.

He’d have to test this look-alike somehow, with something only the real Jaskier would be able to pull off, even centuries later.

Geralt leaned back in his seat, arms across his chest. “ _Toss a Coin_ ,” he challenged. The song was ancient. The lyrics were lost. The most popular of Jaskier’s songs, and the first to fade.

The statement immediately provided his expected result from the vocalist, whose brows knit together in worry. She directed a fearful glance to her contemplating companion, before approaching her mic. “Apologies, witcher,” she chuckled awkwardly. “We don’t know that—”

“Oh, _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher!_ ” Jaskier’s look-alike snapped his fingers. “I know that one! I can play it!”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“...tell me you’re fucking joking,” the vocalist hissed at him.

“Of course not,” the look-alike scoffed, shifting his grip on his guitar and testing a few notes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got this—It’s meant to be played by one person, anyway.”

Geralt didn’t catch the next hissed admonishment, but it was clear from the vocalist’s face, as well as the faces from the rest of the band, that all of them were very much going to worry about it.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure of the _exact_ melody,” Jaskier’s look-alike explained with a dramatic, maudlin sigh. “We’ll just consider this rendition a bit of a modern remix, shall we?” he grinned to Geralt.

The witcher answered with a glare. Disclaimer or no, Geralt wouldn’t take any excuses for this man butchering the lyrics.

“Of course, the story is the same as always,” the look-alike continued, undeterred, even as the crowd began to grow uncomfortable. “We’ve all heard the story of the White Wolf and the Witcher’s Bard, yes? I’m sure you all know it,” he assured, strumming gently. “ _When a humble bard graced a ride-along with Geralt of Rivia—”_

The crowd was silent, unfamiliar with the song.

Geralt, on the other hand, felt as if the look-alike had just dunked him in a frozen lake.

The only difference Geralt could manage to fault was that it was being played on a guitar instead of a lute. The sound, otherwise, was right. The notes were pitch-perfect. Even the lyrics, so commonly uttered incorrectly, stumbled over and changed, were correct.

 _He’ll mess up on ‘he can’t be bleat,’_ Geralt assured himself. Singers of ages past always did, most often switching the word to ‘beat.’ They’d tamed a rowdy song into a more somber ballad, unknowing of the song’s ridiculous, exaggerated context, before forgetting it entirely.

“ _—and so cried the witcher: He can’t be bleat!_ ”

_Fuck._

The man on stage had Jaskier’s looks. Jaskier’s voice. And now, clearly, Jaskier’s _song_.

He couldn’t be human. Even a reincarnation wouldn’t look—wouldn’t sound and act so _perfect_ , mimicking the tiniest mannerism, like the cheeky wink at the barkeep when he sang to pour Geralt some ale.

Geralt found himself wishing the wink had been directed at himself, instead. That the look-alike would direct some sign, some sort of tell that all of this was a big joke. That it really was, however impossible, _his_ Jaskier on that tiny stage. He couldn’t think of any creature with the ability to replicate Jaskier like this—Nothing came to mind that could bring back his Bard shining on stage, performing _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ like it was the day Jaskier debuted it.

The witcher watched, transfixed, as the look-alike finished with a flourish, having drawn in the audience enough to earn his applause regardless of how wary they’d been when the song began. The singer laughed triumphantly, invigorated, beaming right at Geralt. “Well?” he chirped. “How was that version? Passable?”

Geralt didn’t— _couldn’t_ respond immediately, mind too blank and throat to locked to form words. He swallowed, fists curled tight against his chest. Eventually, he managed a low, growling “Hmm.”

If the lackluster response had any effect on the look-alike’s ego, he didn’t show it. If anything, he seemed encouraged. “A most eloquent review from our master witcher!” he laughed. “I’ll be taking that, and the fact that you haven’t stormed out of the pub, as the highest of compliments.” His bandmates relaxed a little behind him, and before he could address Geralt again, the vocalist surged back to her microphone.

“Anyone else have any requests?” she suggested, pointing to a woman who in no way had raised her hand. “How about you, miss?”

Geralt hardly heard the rest of the set, even as his eyes could have bored holes in the spitting image of his Bard. He paid the look-alike the utmost attention, rapt and waiting for any slip. Any clue as to who or what he really was.

 _It’s a coincidence_ , the witcher told himself. The most improbable, impractical coincidence of his entire life. Pure chance. Destiny having a laugh at him, mocking him, for thinking there was any way he could ever see his Bard again.

The band wrapped up, disappearing into a back room to rest.

Trying to figure out the conundrum of the man on stage was quickly giving Geralt a splitting headache. He drained his pint, and then turned back to his food, now cold and unappetizing. He shoved the food forward on the table, leaning his head into one hand and checking his phone with the other.

Still nothing from Ciri. Maybe he could text Yen—get a sorceress’ expertise on this sort of mimicking malarkey. He’d have to text her anyway, about the Boars. He started, intending to at least send _something_ to Yen, but he faltered at how to even explain it.

_I found Jaskier—_

No, he didn’t. A man who looked and acted like Jaskier, surely, but there had to be something wrong. Something off. Some explanation of how the man was _not_ Jaskier.

_I found—_

—what? _What_ had he just found in this nowhere pub, in a nowhere town?

“Do you always just sit in a corner and brood?”

Geralt startled, eyes snapping up to the look-alike who stood not three feet away from him, a new pint of beer in hand. “You.”

“Me!” the look-alike grinned, placing the beer in front of Geralt. “I got you a refill hoping you’d stick around.” He seemed entirely unperturbed by the witcher’s glare, slipping down into the seat opposite Geralt with an eager look in his eyes. “So, witcher, what brings you all the way out here? Certainly not this pub’s Yelp reviews.”

“Who are you?” Geralt questioned, knowing he’d have to be able to get confirmation now. Even with all the similarities, it couldn’t be—

“Oh, right, I haven’t introduced myself,” the man laughed, holding out his hand to Geralt. There was an amicable glint of mischief in his eyes as he waited for Geralt to take it. “I’m Jaskier.”

Geralt’s heart clenched at the words.

Jaskier.

 _His_ Jaskier. Looked like him, sounded like him, even the same fucking _name_.

It was no coincidence.

Geralt huffed, smirking, unable to believe how this meeting was remotely possible, but it was hard to deny, now. “Jaskier,” he repeated, clasping the younger man’s hand in his own.

The medallion on his chest began to hum.

Geralt’s insides felt like ice, and Jaskier seemed none-the wiser, perfectly pleased as he told the witcher, “It’s an honor to meet you, Geralt of Rivia.”


	2. On the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to have a conversation with Jaskier about why his medallion's humming, but has very little success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it's alive! I'm so sorry about the delay and for not responding to comments. My brain hasn't been cooperating with longfics this year. I do want to say I appreciate everyone's comments on ch.1 of this AU so, so much, and I'm glad the plot elements I hinted at were intriguing! I'm definitely faffing about with this fic lol 
> 
> That being said, I've played through all of Witcher 3 and then some now, so I've got a lot more confidence in writing Witcher stuff. I hope y'all enjoy ch.2! I'll try not to have the next one take quite so long;;

Geralt concluded three things in rapid succession regarding Jaskier:

One, the singer only knew _of_ Geralt. No recollection of a shared past whatsoever.

Two, Geralt’s medallion only hummed while he was actually touching Jaskier. It went still the second Geralt’s grasp dropped in surprise.

Three, Jaskier had several, very overprotective friends.

“Jaskier!” cried the vocalist, storming over to their table. “What are you doing?!”

“Seizing an opportunity, obviously!” Jaskier beamed to her, gesturing to Geralt. “Geralt of Rivia! This is my chance to—”

“Oh no,” the vocalist interrupted, catching one of Jaskier’s hands and quickly tugging him to his feet. As the man protested, she shot Geralt a sheepish grin. “So sorry about him, sir,” she told the witcher. “I’ll just get him out of your hair.”

“I’m not _in_ his hair—Look at it, pure white, Priscilla! The actual White Wolf!” Jaksier complained, gesturing wildly to Geralt’s person, only to be roughly shoved toward the door. “Ow, hey, no—!”

“He’s the sort to jump off a bridge if he spots something shiny in the water,” the vocalist, Priscilla, explained to Geralt, her smile now more of a wince.

Jaskier squawked in offense, and once more in outrage as his bandmates took Priscilla’s cue, manhandling their guitarist outside. “One time, _one time_ I jump in the river, and you hang that over my head for the rest of my— _Priscilla!_ ”

“Gonna just—We’ll just get going, bye,” Priscilla uttered in a rush, and then ran out the door.

“Wait—” Geralt called after her, standing, just as the door to the pub slammed shut.

Fuck.

Snarling, Geralt grabbed his things and then charged after the group. He spotted them almost immediately on getting outside. Or, rather, he heard Jaskier and Priscilla shouting at each other, not far down the street. Jaskier was clearly irate, resisting getting manhandled into a van.

“You don’t get it! This isn’t another of my flights of fancy, Pri—”

“Oh, I get that you’re a _moron,_ alright!” Priscilla argued. “I’ll not abide any more of your nonsense tonight! Get in!”

“One hell of a way to interrupt a conversation,” Geralt pointed out to the vocalist, stepping toward the van.

Priscilla’s gaze snapped to Geralt, alarmed. She cursed under her breath before heaving the van door closed, muffling Jaskier’s shouts. “Go!” she called to her bandmate in the driver’s seat, running to scramble inside the vehicle herself.

Geralt hardly had time to shout before the van pulled away, speeding off, leaving him in the dust.

In the dust, pissed off, and extraordinarily confused—the last was a rarity in the last several hundred years, but none of those years had involved the Bard.

It was fitting, Geralt mused, that the second he found Jaskier, his life instantaneously got more complicated.

This time Jaskier wasn’t doggedly following him, though. This time Jaskier had friends with him—friends who in no way wanted him to even _speak_ to Geralt. Friends that might know more about why Jaskier was even _here_.

Friends that may want to prevent Geralt from knowing more, judging by that hasty exit.

Or, this was all just some crazy coincidence, and Jaskier’s friends were just very afraid of witchers—understandable, given their recent infamy, even if Jaskier himself wasn’t understandable in the slightest.

As Geralt looked to his bike, he hesitated. He could leave it alone. Pretend to himself it really was coincidence, and nothing more, despite the oddity of the entire evening.

His hand drifted to his medallion, quiet against his chest.

...No, the man was Jaskier. Or, close enough. He couldn’t possibly ignore the man’s existence.

Something strange had to have happened—was still happening, and he was going to lose the trail if he kept standing around trying to make sense of it.

Geralt mounted his bike, cursing his hesitation, and speeding to catch up.

* * *

The band’s van, thankfully, was old and clunky, unable to outspeed a lone rider on an expertly maintained bike. Even so, Geralt hung back in the traffic, opting to tail them rather than immediately engage them in a full-on chase. The band would have to let their guard down if they thought the witcher was left behind at the pub. They’d drive somewhere familiar, instead of trying to outrun him.

Geralt’s assumption paid off, the van pulling into an apartment complex.

Almost as soon as the vehicle had stopped, Jaskier emerged. Geralt observed from around the corner as Jaskier stormily stomped his way to the door of the building.

“Jaskier—” came Priscilla’s voice, as the vocalist exited the car.

Jaskier didn’t heed her, tearing the door open and letting it slam shut behind him.

Geralt found he didn’t need witcher senses to hear Priscilla’s loud, aggravated groan.

“He’ll be fine; he’s just being dramatic,” one of the bandmates—Geralt was pretty sure she was the drummer—said, patting the other woman’s shoulder. “You know he’s got that thing about witchers.”

“I know, I’m just not looking forward to him being bitchy about it all night,” Priscilla bemoaned as the rest of the band unpacked the van.

“You _did_ kinda blow his chance with that Geralt guy,” the drummer laughed.

“He’ll thank me later, if he’s not a complete idiot,” Priscilla grumbled.

“Yeah...small chance of that,” the drummer joked amiably.

The rest of the group seemed to likewise take Jaskier’s antics in stride, quickly sorting through their equipment and filing inside. Geralt watched them disappear into the building, eyes narrowing under his helmet.

At the very least, Jaskier didn’t seem to be in any sort of trouble by staying with these people, even if they didn’t want him talking to Geralt. Or, Priscilla specifically didn’t. The reasoning had to be tied to whatever Jaskier’s “thing about witchers” was, though Geralt hadn’t the slightest clue as to what the statement meant.

Geralt stayed where he was for the moment, debating. He could approach the apartment. Try to figure out which room they were in. Confront them now and demand to know who, or what, exactly Jaskier was.

Not a great plan, if he was honest, and it was liable to get the cops called on him. Priscilla surely wouldn’t take the White Wolf’s appearance on their doorstep well after so determinedly trying to get Jaskier away from him.

He didn’t have nearly enough information, but he wasn’t keen on getting arrested, either. So instead, Geralt made a note of the building’s address, and turned his bike around. It was technically the early hours of morning, even if the sun wouldn’t be rising for ages. He knew how Jaskier’s old schedule had worked on nights like this—Stay up late, rise near midday, and do it all over again the next night. The band wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

Geralt drove out of the complex, intending to find a motel for the night. He’d track Jaskier down in the morning, hopefully when Priscilla wasn’t tagging along.

In the meantime, he sent a simple text to Yennefer and Ciri:

'Found a man who can play Toss A Coin. Calls himself Jaskier.'

* * *

The next day, Geralt rose early, prepped for a boring morning full of waiting patiently outside the apartment complex for some sign of Jaskier. He munched idly on a breakfast wrap, attention drawn to his phone when the text icon lit up the screen. Then again, and again in rapid succession.

It was Ciri, with several balloons of 'What???? Where? When? Did you talk to him?' followed by a customary, 'Oh alive, btw.'

'Pub in Mulbrydale,' Geralt replied. 'Last night. His friends interrupted.' He looked up, hearing the apartment door open, but the woman that emerged was middle-aged, walking her dog. Not who he was waiting on. 'Outside their apartment now.'

He definitely had Ciri’s attention, her response immediate. 'Please don’t tell me you’re stalking this guy just because he can play Toss A Coin.'

Geralt scowled at his phone. 'Not stalking,' he texted back.

'Right, "outside their apartment now" is very normal, non-stalker behavior.'

The sound of the apartment door opening again made Geralt stop trying to text a rebuttal. It wasn’t past noon, yet, but there they were—Jaskier walking quickly ahead of his bandmates and toward their van.

He was still miffed at his friends, if the way he actively ignored Priscilla was any indication.

One by one they filed into the vehicle, and Geralt frowned, frustrated. Jaskier would be surrounded, again. It wouldn’t be easy to separate him from the pack. The singer still seemed human. No obvious magic about him. At least, not from this distance. He might not even be aware of it. Might not have known there was anything about him that would set off Geralt’s medallion.

Either that, or Jaskier was _very_ good at pretending to be normal.

As the band began to drive out of the complex, Geralt quickly shoved his helmet back on. He stored his phone and breakfast as they passed, and then revved up his bike, following.

* * *

Geralt spent hours following Jaskier.

Hours waiting for a chance where the singer wasn’t surrounded by his bandmates, or some other friend they met up with. Even when Priscilla temporarily left the group, Geralt found himself running into other obstacles—A traffic light changing at an inopportune moment. Another driver on the road cutting him off as the band made a turn.

Their band didn’t even play again that night, opting for a house party in a gated community instead.

Geralt went back to his motel, shoving the door to his room open with an annoyed grunt. He tossed his helmet and his phone on the bed, figuring he could at least try to get some sleep now.

His phone lit up with a notification.

Shrugging out of his leather jacket, Geralt leaned to check the device. It was a response from Yennefer.

'Send pic.'

Geralt frowned at the demand. The day hadn’t provided a single opportunity to snap a photo of Jaskier. He’d managed to give Yennefer a little more context—His medallion humming on touching the singer, the uncanny _everything_. Apparently that wasn’t enough to offer him any advice.

He’d just have to try harder tomorrow.

* * *

A week later, Geralt was starting to suspect that destiny really _was_ just conspiring against him.

Geralt was careful, only approaching when he knew Priscilla was unlikely to spot him and drag Jaskier off again. Once, he even met the singer’s eyes, Jaskier’s face lighting up with what Geralt could only describe as _delight_.

Then his other friends whisked him away again.

Today was no different.

It was the weekend, midday. The band was ambling about the shopping district, Priscilla glancing over her shoulder every so often.

Geralt waited in the shadows of a looming high rise, out of their periphery. When Priscilla ducked away from the group, heading into a coffee shop, he moved a little closer. If he could catch Jaskier’s eye without alerting the rest of them, maybe he could get Jaskier to sneak away on his own. The singer seemed keen enough to come on his own.

But, yet again, it wasn’t Jaskier who spotted Geralt.

“Witcher!” the drummer pointed out, the others moving in a now well-practiced getaway, dragging a _livid_ Jaskier across the road.

Geralt wondered tiredly when he and Jaskier’s roles had switched. Seemed like the bard had always followed him, ages past. Now Geralt was chasing Jaskier’s doppelganger all around town.

He also wondered how his Bard had done it, back then. This run around was more frustrating than any of his hunts.

Several yards away, Priscilla exited the coffee shop, drinks procured. She went to take a sip of her own, looking questioningly at the space where her friends had been, and then spotted Geralt. Instantly, she froze, nearly dropping her cup.

Geralt regarded her with an annoyed grimace. “You going to run him off every time I show up?”

Priscilla let out a nervous laugh. “Says the guy who’s been stalking my best friend!”

“I’m not _stalking—_ ” Geralt growled.

“Oh? Then what _do_ you call all that skulking around you’ve been doing?” Priscilla snapped, standing stiff, chin raised in challenge to the witcher.

Geralt inhaled sharply in irritation, noting the distinct spike of fear beneath her bravado. His eyes narrowed, assessing her. She was human—obviously so. No smell of magic on her, so not a mage. Unlikely the one responsible for whatever magic was at play with Jaskier. No visible weapons on her person, either. She was average. Normal, scared of him, like most people.

“Well?!” Priscilla demanded, voice pitching higher with nerves when Geralt didn’t answer. “What do you even want?!”

“To talk to Jaskier,” Geralt said plainly, shifting to a more relaxed stance. As non-threatening as he could manage, not including the swords on his back.

“Sure, a _witcher_ just wants to _talk_ ,” Priscilla scoffed, one finger around her to-go cup pointing accusingly at Geralt. “No, I know him, and I know _your_ type—You stay the hell away from him. You’ll bring nothing but trouble. Horrors and heartbreak and the like.”

“There’s magic on him, or in him,” Geralt informed her. “He could already _be_ in trouble.” Before she could argue, he added, “Besides, he wants to talk to me, too. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, he’s _magic,_ sure,” Priscilla huffed a laugh, dismissively. “He’d stick his hand in an open flame if he was explicitly told not to,” Priscilla countered. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him—We’re keeping him _safe_ , despite his stupid obsession—”

“If he’s who I think he is, he’ll get what he wants sooner or later,” Geralt interrupted. “Best to let him, before he does something stupid.”

“You don’t—Wait,” Priscilla’s brow furrowed at the witcher. “You...What do you mean ‘who I think he is?’”

Unsure how to answer the question, Geralt’s lips parted. Then, shouting from across the street drew the attention of them both. Geralt turned his head, spotting Jaskier himself—the singer having slipped away from his friends’ care and now running down the opposite sidewalk.

Priscilla let out a loud, exasperated groan at the sight of the singer. “Jask!” she shouted, directing him to turn around. “Go back to the others!”

“Absolutely fucking not!” Jaskier shouted back, storming his way across the sidewalk. “You think I’ll tolerate getting pushed and pulled all over the place just because _you lot_ don’t want me talking to a witcher?!”

“ _Gods_ ,” Priscilla exclaimed, tilting her head back as if to beseech the higher beings themselves. “Don’t—We are not doing this again!”

Geralt guessed they’d had this exact conversation several times, that week.

“I swear, you _want_ to get yourself into so much _shit—_ ” Priscilla started.

_“_ Oh, is that what I’ll do?” Jaskier snapped back, pausing in the crosswalk with a hand on his hips. His other friends shouted at him from across the road, but he ignored them as he gestured at Geralt _._ “Remind me again, of the two of us, dear, _who_ is the one who studied—”

Priscilla nearly threw her coffee at the singer as he rambled. “Get back to the other side of the _street_ —”

Geralt watched for a moment, almost amused at how nostalgic Jaskier’s ire was.

Then he heard a car horn.

The witcher’s head snapped to attention, just in time to see a car speeding down the road, right in Jaskier’s direction. Priscilla noticed just after, shrieking for Jaskier to move, but Geralt moved first. The witcher dashed into the street, yanking Jaskier out of the way just as the car screeched to a halt. The vehicle lurched back, frame only inches away from Geralt.

The driver began to shout, but whatever words were on his lips died as he spotted the sword hilt Geralt gripped over his shoulder.

“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier breathed, staring wide-eyed. “Geralt—!” He yelped then, as Geralt tugged him across the street and to the safety of the sidewalk, a deathgrip on his arm.

“Fuck’s sake, Jaskier,” Geralt hissed emphatically, pulling the singer in front of him to look into startingly blue eyes, medallion humming gently on his chest all the while. “I’d ask what the fuck you were thinking, but that’s assuming there’s _any_ thinking that goes on in your head!”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped as he let out an offended noise.

“...Okay, maybe you _do_ know him,” Priscilla conceded with a shaky breath, leaning her head on her hand in relief.

“Oh, _you—!_ ” Jaskier began, rounding on Priscilla again.

Geralt watched them with a tight-lipped frown, wondering how much of their arguing he would actually have to suffer through before he could get them to listen. Even the car driver was watching them now, Priscilla revived enough to start sniping right back. As Jaskier began to ramble again, Geralt pulled out his phone.

No updates from Yennefer or Ciri, but it would be easy enough to get a picture of his Bard’s lookalike, even if he couldn’t get a word in.

Geralt snapped a quick photo, texting it to Yennefer. The message was marked as seen almost instantly.

“What was that?” Priscilla questioned, glaring at Geralt’s phone. “What are you doing?”

Before Geralt could even think of answering, he was distracted by the sudden, intense scent of ozone, and a crackling sensation in the air. For a split-second he thought it was coming from Jaskier, but the singer looked as confused as Geralt.

Then a portal ripped through the space next to the group, blocking off the coffee shop.

Geralt’s phone lit up with a text from Yennefer, demanding, 'Bring him. And don’t bitch about the portal.'

Eyeing the tear in space with distrust, Geralt steeled himself. Portals always made him nauseous. They didn’t always work. He could bring Jaskier the normal way. But, that would require the headache of separating him from Priscilla and figuring out where Yennefer even was.

So, two choices: massive headache, or nausea.

Geralt grunted in annoyance, opting for the latter, if only because the method would be infinitely quicker. He grabbed Jaskier by the wrist with ease, the singer too baffled by the portal’s sudden appearance to resist.

“Wait—” Priscilla protested. “What are you—?!”

“I’m borrowing him,” Geralt told her, and then quickly yanked Jaskier through the portal.


	3. The Bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt brings this new Jaskier to Yennefer for answers into how the singer even exists, but mostly just succeeds in raising more questions on all sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Hope y'all are doing well!

Geralt landed on the other side of the portal with little difficulty, his grip moving from Jaskier’s wrist to his arm, to keep the other man upright.

“Wow,” Jaskier said, wobbly on his feet and very much leaning on Geralt for balance. “Wow, wow, wow, what the f—oh _gods,_ I think I’m gonna be sick,” he moaned, lurching forward a little before Geralt righted him again.

“You’ll be fine. Breathe,” Geralt grumbled, fighting off his own nausea as he looked around.

They were in a sleek, modernized living room. There was a small kitchen on the far side, decked out with what Geralt assumed must be top of the line appliances, though they didn’t look as though they saw any use. Pristine, black leather couches were situated to the left of them, and Geralt ushered Jaskier over to the nearest.

“Sit,” Geralt ordered, helping Jaskier situate himself on the edge of the couch. Once the singer was settled, a _whoosh_ of air told Geralt the portal had closed. However, no sorceress was in sight. “Yen?” Geralt called, trying to see into the hallway off to the right of the kitchen.

“Yen?” Jaskier echoed, and then awe mixed with horror dawned on his face. “You mean _that_ Yenn—?!”

“Gods, he even _sounds_ like him,” came Yennefer’s voice from the hallway. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she entered the room, sharp eyes immediately locking onto Jaksier. She halted abruptly at the entryway, looking cool and collected in an expertly tailored suit, even as she stared openly at the frazzled singer on her couch. “...Fuck,” she nearly laughed, “That photo hardly did him justice.”

“Told you,” Geralt shrugged with one shoulder.

Spluttering, Jaskier gestured to the sorceress, also glaring at Geralt. “Yennefer of _Vengerberg?!_ ”

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed as she moved swiftly around the glass coffee table. Before either man knew what was happening, she caught Jaskier’s jaw in her hand. She examined him, turning his head this way and that, mouth a thin line.

“Um,” Jaskier began, “Can I—”

“Just as chatty, too,” Yennefer noted, “Like he can’t help himself.” With a click of her tongue, she let go, giving the confused man a full once over. “Those rings aren’t real silver, are they? They’re some cheap imitation, like the rest of you?” she questioned, looking pointedly at Jaskier’s hands.

“Uh, hold on, I’m sorry— _Cheap imitation?_ ” Jaskier parroted, affronted. “Of course my rings are re—” he paused, thinking, and then glanced down at one of the rings on his left hand. “Well, alright, one’s covered in nail polish to keep my finger from going green, but that’s _beside the point—_ ”

“Give them here,” Yennefer demanded, holding her hand out, expectantly.

“Why do you—?”

“ _Now,_ ” she stated, with zero room for argument.

“Alright, alright!” Jaskier exclaimed, glancing between Geralt and Yennefer as he removed his rings. “Can I at least ask what the _hell_ is going on here? And why my jewelry is somehow a key factor?”

“You set off my medallion,” Geralt answered him, as Yennefer took the rings.

Jaskier titled his head at the witcher, waiting for him to elaborate. When no explanation was forthcoming, he leaned forward, insistently. “And that would imply...what, exactly?”

“Well, we can rule out a monster,” Yennefer determined, examining the inside of one band. “The silver in this one is pure,” she directed a smirk at Jaskier, “even if the emerald is fake.”

“What do you mean it’s not real emer—Wait.” Jaskier stiffened, unconsciously leaning back, away from the sorceress. “Rule out…?” He turned to Geralt, paling. “You think I’m some sort of _monster?_ ”

Geralt grimaced, hating the fear on Jaskier’s face. “We don’t know—”

“What is _happening?!_ ” Jaskier interrupted, his hands clutching at the sides of his head.

“You didn’t explain anything to him?” Yennefer asked, aiming an unimpressed frown at the witcher. “Geralt. Really.”

“I didn’t exactly have time, _Yen,_ ” Geralt growled. He was quickly regretting his choice to deal with the nausea of portal travel over a headache. It seemed he was going to end up with nausea and a headache anyway, dealing with the pair of them.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the _other_ thing I’d like to know about,” Jaskier exclaimed, gesturing between the witcher and sorceress again. “You both do realize there wasn’t a need to whisk me away via magical shenanigans, right? I already wanted to talk to Geralt; you only needed to _ask_.”

“Your friends were posing a problem,” Geralt sighed through grit teeth. “Didn’t know if they were involved in whatever magic you’ve got on you.”

“...Come again?” Jaskier’s voice pitched upward in concern. “Magic? On me?”

“The presence of magic also sets off a witcher's medallion,” Yennefer interjected. “Now, hold still while I find out what kind of spell we’re dealing with.” Not waiting for Jaskier to parse the information, the sorceress waved a hand in the air over his space, speaking lines of Elder.

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, observing Jaskier as Yennefer worked her magic. While the witcher wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing, he could at least watch Jaskier for any signs of something wrong. Anything off. Any discomfort, or crack in the singer’s perfect facade.

Jaskier, so far, only seemed keen on not pissing off the sorceress uttering incantations before him. The singer sat rigid in his seat, taking the command of holding still as literally as possible. His eyes roamed all over though, flicking nervously from Yennefer, to Geralt, to the various pieces of modern art strewn about the living room. Then he stared at the kitchen, more curiosity than anxiety, only to snap his attention back to Yennefer.

Geralt could call him distractible, probably, but that certainly wasn’t a crack to be noted. It might even make him closer to the real thing.

As Yennefer continued, Jaskier only seemed to grow more fidgety. His leg bounced, gently at first, and then increased in pace, anxiety coming off him in waves.

“Doing alright?” Geralt muttered softly, catching the other man’s attention. “Anything feel weird?”

“Uh,” Jaskier started uneasily. He found some reassurance in Geralt’s demeanor, apparently, relaxing enough to smile awkwardly. “...My nose itches? That’s about it. Should I be feeling something?”

Yennefer’s chanting ended, and she slowly lowered her hand. “...that isn’t ideal,” she stated.

“What, my nose itching is a bad sign? Should I not scratch it? But it’s—”

“I’m not talking about your nose, you idiot,” Yennefer sighed, an edge of scorn in her voice.

“What spell is it?” Geralt asked.

“I don’t know,” Yennefer said, her words clipped with frustration, “Because it’s not a spell. It’s _spells,_ plural, all woven together. We’re dealing with someone very particular, and very powerful.”

“You recognize it?” Geralt pressed.

“I don’t,” Yennefer stated, turning to the witcher with a tight smile. “I don’t know anyone who can interlock so many spells together like this. It would take too long for any human to withstand.”

Geralt hazarded a glance to Jaskier’s confused face, and then took Yennefer’s arm, leading her gently but urgently a few paces away. “Yen, what _is_ he?” Geralt hissed.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Yennefer whispered back. She grimaced, briefly, only to steel her gaze at Geralt. “I need to examine him further. It could take weeks to unravel them all without outright destroying him.”

“You want to keep him here?” Geralt scoffed. “His friends already accused me of stalking. You really wanna kidnap him, too?”

“And whose fault is that?” Yennefer shot back. “I need to study what spells went into him, Geralt, because they are _in_ him. Woven into his entire being.”

“...You mean like a—?”

“Um,” Jaskier called from the couch, craning his neck up as if seeing the pair better would help him hear what they were discussing. “Am I...cursed or something?”

“Doubtful, but considering it’s you, I won’t rule it out just yet,” Yennefer responded, turning smoothly to the singer. “You’re going to be staying here, in the meantime. Since I have to go and prepare some things, Geralt can finally bother to explain why you’re here in the first place.”

“Yen, you can’t just—” Geralt began.

“And here I thought after all this time you’d know I can, and I will,” Yennefer stopped him. She patted the witcher’s shoulder. “Go on, attend to our guest. I’ll be back with some instruments.” With that, she left the room.

“...I’m assuming she doesn’t mean she’s bringing me a selection of guitars to play,” Jaskier muttered.

“You’d be right,” Geralt sighed with a shake of his head, massaging his temples with one hand.

“Geralt?”

The witcher turned to look at Jaskier, who wore a searching look on his face full of concern and anxiety—An expression all too familiar to Geralt, having seen it every time he left for a particularly unsavory battle. Geralt felt a twinge in his chest, wanting to soothe the younger man on the couch until the fear left his face.

“Why’d you bring me here?” Jaskier asked tentatively.

Geralt took a long, steadying breath before responding, looking into too-blue eyes. “You’re...a lot like someone we knew,” he attempted, though he could see the new questions springing immediately to Jaskier’s mind in how the singer canted his head. “Practically a replica,” Geralt added quickly.

“...Y’know, most people would’ve simply asked, ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere,’ instead of dragging them through magic portals to talk to scary sorceresses,” Jaskier pointed out, a half-hearted laugh on his lips.

“It’s more than that,” Geralt grimaced. “You’re _too_ similar. Your name’s even the same.”

Jaskier did laugh then, disbelieving. “Well—Jaskier’s only a stage name. I’m—”

“Julian,” Geralt guessed. Correctly, judging from Jaskier’s widening eyes. “That was his name, too.”

“Right, yeah, _whose_ name, exactly?” Jaskier pressed. “I’ve read countless stories about you, Geralt, and I don’t recall anyone named—”

“The bard.”

“The ba—” Jaskier froze, open-mouthed, going still and silent as though he’d completely forgotten to breathe. He began and halted several attempts to speak, only to splutter, “ _The_ bard?! _The Witcher’s Bard?!_ His name was—?!” He paused again, unable to look at Geralt as he processed the new information. “ _...what._ ”

Not quite the reaction Geralt had been hoping for, if he was honest.

“I’m—So, hold on, let me be sure I’ve got this right. You, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier began, gesturing toward Geralt’s person, “witcher extraordinaire and _legend_ among the vast majority of my university professors, along with the _sorceress_ Yennefer of Vengerburg—” he waved a hand wildly at the hallway Yennefer had left through. “—who’s arguably more famous than you, or maybe infamous, depending on who you’re talking to—think that I am...The Witcher’s Bard.”

“Not just us,” Geralt added, thinking of Ciri. He still needed to text her the photo of Jaskier, but he was certain she’d agree with his own assessment. “The spells on you must have something to do with it.”

“I didn’t even know I had spells on me in the first place!” Jaskier cried in distress. He ran his fingers roughly through his hair, gaze dropping to somewhere on the floor. “No trysts with witches or any such—At least, none that I remember…? Fuck’s sake.”

Geralt couldn’t help himself any longer. He knelt by the singer’s side, placing a hand on Jaskier’s knee in the hopes it would ground him. “It’s alright,” Geralt rumbled. “We’ll figure this out.”

Jaskier laughed, the pitch high and nervous. Then he bit his lips together, eyes flicking back to the hallway. “...She’s, uh,” he grimaced at Geralt. “She’s not going to experiment on me, is she?”

“Nothing that’ll hurt you,” Geralt told him, a small smirk forming on his lips. “Probably.”

“Great, yes, that’s _very_ comforting, thank you,” Jaskier drawled sarcastically. He slumped backward against the couch, groaning into his hands.

“You alright?” Geralt prompted, noting the quickened sound of Jaskier’s heart was beginning to slow. And that Jaskier wasn’t removing Geralt’s hand from his knee.

“Yeah, of course, I’m _fine_ ,” Jaskier said, not even trying to sound convincing as his arms dropped to his sides. He stared in askance at the ceiling. “Just coming to terms with apparently being a magical copy of the legendary Witcher’s Bard, after having dedicated a good portion of my life to studying his works. No big deal. Just my entire being and the impetus for my music career in general. Absolutely normal and simple to comprehend.”

Geralt snorted at the rambling, sure that if this singer _was_ anything like his bard, it was a sign he would take things in stride and wasn’t actually panicking. This Jaskier was unlikely to break down or bolt, at least. Geralt patted Jaskier’s knee once before standing. “I’ll get you some water,” he offered, heading toward the kitchen.

“Might I request something much, _much_ stronger than water?” Jaskier inquired, rolling his head along the back of the couch to watch the witcher. “A bottle of wine or...three, perhaps?”

Geralt shook his head at the request, struggling to keep the smile off his face. The singer was too damn familiar, even with his sense of humor. Geralt would have to keep his affections thoroughly reigned in until they knew more, but it was already proving more difficult than he liked. “Maybe later,” Geralt conceded, pulling down a glass from one of the cabinets.

“Cruel of you to deny the request of a man having an existential crisis,” Jaskier pouted from his seat. Heaving a hefty sigh, he rolled his head back to look listlessly toward the ceiling again. “I _suppose_ water will have to suffice.”

Geralt returned with a full glass, handing it to the singer. As Jaskier drank from it, immediately, unquestioningly, Geralt had a sudden realization.

Jaskier seemed to trust him. Implicitly. After knowing him for, maybe, a grand total of twenty minutes.

If it was difficult for Geralt to reign his old affections in before, keeping how much this realization affected him off his face was nearing impossible. Geralt shuffled from foot to foot, waiting as Jaskier gulped down the water. When the singer paused, Geralt nodded to him. “You’re surprisingly calm, despite the dramatics. I can hear your heartbeat is almost back to normal.”

“Eh,” Jaskier shrugged, taking one more sip. “I’m sure it all will hit me like a truck later, but for now I’m at least buoyed by my prior knowledge of your general modus operandi,” he grinned. “I also tend to go with my gut when it comes to people, and my gut is very strongly suggesting you’re plenty trustworthy.”

“Your friends might disagree with your gut,” Geralt countered.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “They’re just being worrywarts. If anything, I should apologize on their behalf—all the news lately has them paranoid that their ‘witcher-obsessed friend,’” he quoted, sneering, “is going to get himself killed trying to get information out of a Boar or something.” He scoffed against the glass in his hand. “It’s insulting, really, how little they think of my acumen; as though I couldn’t tell the minute I saw you that you weren’t the type to go all...feral witchery rage on the populace—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, brow furrowing as he tried to parse the many new feelings and concerns springing up from Jaskier’s rambling.

Typical, really.

“You said...Witcher- _obsessed?_ ” Geralt questioned.

“...Well, that’s their word for it,” Jaskier noted, eyes averting away from Geralt. His lips were pursed in what was almost a pout—One that Geralt recognized from the bard’s sheepish embarrassment at what was more than likely an accurate descriptor. “I...I may have studied the works of The Witcher’s Ba—Well…” Nose scrunching in uncertainty, he looked back to Geralt in askance. “...his name was really _Julian?_ ”

“Went by Jaskier, more often than not,” Geralt answered. At the singer’s discomfited fidgeting, he quickly added, “Other times he called himself Dandelion.”

“...Dandelion,” Jaskier repeated softly, tapping his fingers gently against his knee as he thought. “Huh.”

Geralt swallowed down the burgeoning hope that the name is familiar because it really _was_ his Jaskier sitting here. “Well?”

“What? Oh,” Jaskier refocused, sitting up again. “Right. Uh. We’ll—I suppose let’s go with Dandelion while referring to your...Your friend?”

Geralt sighed softly. Unhappily. “Not my friend.”

“Right. That’s extraordinarily confusing, all things considered,” Jaskier laughed awkwardly. “At, uh...At any rate, I studied Dandelion’s music in university—Studying what we know of the history of witchers sort’ve naturally came along with it.”

Geralt hesitated. If he went by his knowledge of _his_ Jask—of Dandelion, and the old tells of when the bard would lie, then Jaskier _wasn’t_ lying. The singer believed what he’s saying, at least.

“Something’s off to you, isn’t it,” Jaskier noted, pointing a finger at Geralt’s face. “I can tell. You look very doubt-y.”

“...Dandelion’s songs are gone,” he stated, ignoring the concern he felt at how easily Jaskier read him. “All of them.”

“Oh! The originals, yes, of course,” Jaskier laughed, waving the matter away with a hand. “I didn’t study his private journals or anything—They were copies, written by a myriad of other, lesser bards.”

“Even _Toss A Coin_?” Geralt pointed out, eyes narrowing.

“Sure,” Jaskier chirped. “Took ages to find a version _close_ to Dandelion’s time period, but I found a transcription—I did, um,” he chuckled self-consciously, biting his lower lip between his teeth. He winced a little, as though bracing himself for Geralt to actually berate him for what he was about to say. “I may have _slightly_ changed the lyrics from what I’d found. They didn’t—I don’t know,” he huffed a sharp sigh. “They didn’t _sound_ right, when I tried to play them. Not compared to the rest of Dandelion’s body of work.” He ducked his head then, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry if I butchered it the other night.”

Geralt stared at him, entirely unsure what to make of this man.

The lyrics didn’t _sound_ right, so he changed them. He changed the lyrics of an ages old song, long thought forgotten, based on _feeling_. Only to stumble across not only the correct lyrics, but the proper way to _play_ the damn thing.

“What the fuck are you?” Geralt blurted out.

Jaskier looked equally baffled. “What?”

“You played it perfectly. Lyrics, note changes. Everything.”

“I…” Jaskier’s eyes grew impossibly wider. He barked out a disbelieving laugh, and held out his now empty glass. “Are you _absolutely_ sure I can’t get something stronger than water? Because what the fuck. What the _fuck_ , Geralt.”

“...Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna need a drink, too.”


End file.
